Skies
Long before the land,
we lost the sky
of the native tropics.
Its ceaseless light
without winter frost,
clouds with no ice
or darkness. And the guardian
azure above the mangoes,
mountain immortelles and reedbeds.
Of the tropic we also lost
the cordial nights,
the moorland breezes
and the salt of the seas;
the stars of the road,
which learned our
names and vowels,
the known sounds
of crickets and jaguars.
When you close the door
and tighten the windows,
and set off down unfamiliar roads,
look up to the sky you leave behind,
there remain your signals,
the features and dreams
that were once a beginning.
Snows and cruel gales
lie yonder.
Loss of the Kingdom
And the burden of not being…
Where will the skin
of these musical valleys
scented with
guava and honey end up?
These backwaters and canals
for thirsty days,
into what seas
or lakes and currents
will they eventually flow?
The golden hills
of these bosoms,
blindly traversed
in clear and early mornings,
under what skies
will they wake up tomorrow?
A last glance
for this kingdom
of ample flesh,
and apple smoothness
that laid there for me.
Return from the Crusades
I return,
after many years
as a crusader,
to the native country.
Here, war is
not over.
The long beaked
toucans have been
buried,
and the mountain bluebirds
sleep beside them.
The red-armed hunters
come down from the hills
with weapons and horses.
Their faces are cruel
and their gestures ruthless.
At the top of the tree,
we sense the jay
when, in his song,
he tells us:
“War
is not over,
it will still take time
for the kingdom
to be freed.”
Tables
We have learned
to dine
at empty tables.
There are chairs to spare
in our homes.
We no longer sit
to share the smell
of the stews,
nor the smokes
of our embers.
First, the
hasty suitcases
of our children. Then,
with books under arms,
it was our friend’s turn,
all around the world
asking for asylum.
Our tables
have lost balance,
two at one end,
four in the emptiness.
Work Table
In the wee hours,
before the roosters
lose themselves in the sky,
I write between your legs,
on the floor where my pens
and books remain.
This is my work table,
here I write
tales and poems
on the pages of your body
with my fingers.
Inside a distant house
lie all my books and papers,
editions of Catullus and Horace
and Shakespeare’s complete works.
Far from my notebooks, I have
nothing but the paper of your skin,
in these wee hours,
when walls become blind.
